


requital

by cherishmartell



Category: The Pinkertons (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Annalee deserves the world, Episode: s01e16 Mudd and Clay, Gen, Minor Character Death, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishmartell/pseuds/cherishmartell
Summary: The girls might be dead, but she is very much alive and so is he.The dead demand vengeance and she'll see they get it.What I think was going through Annalee's head during the events of 'Mudd and Clay'.
Relationships: Annalee Webb & Kate Warne, Annalee Webb & Other(s), Annalee Webb & William Pinkerton
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	requital

Annalee sees their faces in her dreams, more often than she'd like. They haunt her, ruined faces set in accusing masks. She can hear their voices, dry death rattles all, with none of the sweetness, the vigor they held in life. It's a cruel mockery, being haunted by these pale imitations when she's known the real things, laughed with them and commiserated beside them. 

They've all imprinted themselves on her heart - Sarah, Luann, Eileen and the youngest, sweet Nancy. She'd just been starting out then, the Dubois newly hers and the memory of years past an all too real threat of what would happen if she failed. When Jeremiah and his ilk had swaggered in, leaving a trail of whispers and pointed stares, she knew what would happen if she did not acquiesce to Mudd's demands. She was so afraid of failure she forgot herself, forgot _them_ as she hurried to serve his whims. She denied him nothing, even if it meant she had to climb up the stairs at his side, tolerate his meaty hands on her waist, his breath...

The memory alone is enough to make her gag, but the tears come when she remembers what he did to them. Luring them out of the Dubois, snake oil spilling from his lips and them lapping it up, eyes shining with the promise of what could be. She wasn't an innocent, hadn't been for a long time so she could see the promises for what they were: _pretty, tarted up lies_. 

Annalee should have grabbed hold of them by their arms, barred the doors and stood before the girls with a shotgun, willing to risk death so long as it kept them free from him. But she was young and frightened so she stood by, lips pressed into a pained, disapproving line and watched the colorful, vivacious parade sashay out the Dubois' doors. 

Months passed and word reached her of the girls, them working the mining camp. It turned her stomach, made her madder than a hornet, but she hadn't done anything. Just kept her head down, served drinks and helped gentlemen part with their money. She pretended like it was nothing more than a bad dream, a figment of her imagination. The one thing she couldn't escape was the sick feeling in her stomach whenever a regular asked about them, or saw one of the girls wearing something they had left behind. But it was livable. Or at least, it had been, until she opened the doors to the Dubois one morning and saw Nancy lying on the steps like a rag doll. 

It had taken her and two other girls to drag her inside; one of the guests was kind enough to carry Nancy up the stairs, else she would have been in store for a long and uncomfortable journey. They set her up in Annalee’s room, she wouldn't hear otherwise and she spent hours dabbing at her feverish forehead with cool cloths scented with soothing lavender, whispers apologies, prayers (what little she remembered from her childhood) and tried to smile through the tears. 

Nancy slipped in and out of consciousness for days, the few words that pass her lips fevered ramblings that made no sense. Annalee couldn't stay by her side for long, she'd a business to run, but Nancy was never alone, not for a moment. The other girls took turns sitting vigil, holding her hands and singing to her in off-key voices. It's a sight to soften the hardest heart, but tears didn't help Nancy. Especially not when Dr. Simmons stopped by (he was the only one that would) and shakes his head, eyes solemn. 

“Won't be long now,” he had told her. “Best to say your goodbyes now.” 

It was hard news to break to the girls, but she did, with a reserve that surprised even her. An eerie calm had fallen over her in those final days, a strength she can't find to this day. She rarely left Nancy’s side and, in those last hours, she was rewarded. Nancy had a spell of consciousness, her eyes clearer than they had been in days. Annalee didn't waste that time; much as she hated to, she asked her to tell her what happened when she left, and where the others were. Those words had to be forced out, heavy with fear. Nancy’s voice was no longer sweet as she whispered her tale to her, her voice hoarse with fever and the effects of hard living. 

What she told Annalee cut deep, made her feel like someone upended a bucket of cold water over her. It sickened her, made her run for the chamber pot to retch into. It took her some time to recover, to pull herself together and stumble back to Nancy’s side, grabbing her hands with a desperate strength as she wove stories of the old days, as close to a fairytale as either of them will get. She kept on talking, even when Nancy ceased to reply, when she stopped supplying details that Annalee has forgotten. Annalee talked faster when Nancy’s breath grew labored, forcing the words past the growing lump in her throat. No matter how hard she tried, the cleaned up pictures of the past will never erase the ugly truth Nancy has whispered to her. 

She would remember those words, the treatment those girls suffered at Mudd’s hands, the miners’, the way that Luann and Eileen and Sarah had died, long after Nancy’s chapped lips went slack and her hands still within Annalee’s.

At night, on the rare occasions she's woken up alone (and screaming), she wonders if she would have acted if she knew those girls would never again cross her threshold, save one, barely alive, whose final breaths would be gasped in the cramped beds that had been theirs...once upon a time. She wonders if she'd have had the courage to rake a knife across Mudd’s throat, spill his blood before he could spill theirs. That lost thought clings to her as stubbornly as his damned name, follows her around while she tends bar, sweet talks guests out of their hard earned coin and flirts with the handsome newcomer, some sort of lawman if she's right. 

It should frighten her, disgust what little of the Catholic that's left in her. But it doesn't; Annalee is too far gone. Under her sweet smiles and seductive sway of her hips, anger gnaws away at her, working itself past what little sense of right and wrong she still clutches to her. The girls might be dead, but she is very much alive and so is he.  


_The dead demand vengeance and she’ll see they get it._

She's been looking forward to this trial, this _hanging_ like a child anticipating Christmas. But there's a bitterness in her, a grimness that no child should have. She knows that Mudd’s thugs will try to break him out, or a judge will stick a greedy hand out and allow a monster to walk free. Annalee is still waiting for the other shoe to drop when Will and Kate make their way into the hotel one bitterly cold day. 

She doesn't think anything of it, how could she, when they were in so often that she forgot that Will was the only one that lived here. They've become fixtures, as much as she and Stanley the barkeep have. 

She spares them a quick smile, a careless gesture tossed over her shoulder before she returns to soothing the cold and angry crowd flocking her establishment. 

_She regrets it, later._

She should have known, should have seen that there was more to their watchfulness, their awkward manner. It's not odd on Kate. Mrs. Warne is as serious as they come, while Will...he always has a smile for her, always has some anecdote he thinks will make her laugh. Sometimes it irritates her, especially when she's busy, but she would have welcomed it now, for some form of cheer. 

She feels tired now, feels older than her years but she can't slow down now. There are people to see to, people who had hungered for this day as much as she. So she pastes on a smile, one that feels tight and fraying at the seams, and makes her way around the room. 

After all, what's a few more hours, when she'll end the day, watching Mudd swing from the end of a rope.

Everyone's on edge, now. First the trial, then the storm. Now...a man shot dead in _her_ hotel. It's not the first time it's happened (and she's sure it won't be the last). She's madder than a hornet, a little worried for that Japanese fella, but she can't upset the others. She murmurs excuses, _Gun went off by accident,_ all the while looking towards the staircase. 

Annalee longs to go up there, check on him herself, but she's got high paying regulars here, so she forces herself to make the rounds, offering platitudes and liquor. It's not until she passes Mr. Clay for the second time that she finally catches what he's been talking about so avidly. It's not some business deal, but rather, a neat little blade he picked up on one of his trips. 

Mr. Clay keeps extolling the virtues of his straight razor, though the man sitting beside him has long since stopped listening. He picks up the topic with renewed vigor when he sees her passing, even goes so far as to grab her arm. 

_Truly, Annalee. There's no blade that can equal it. It makes the knives those ranchers carry look like children's toys._

The next time he is in the city, he offers, he'd been more than happy to pick up a few for her...or rather, the hotel’s gentlemen callers.

It was an uncharacteristically generous offer, one that would have raised suspicions but she's run off her feet and every creak of the roof steals her attention. 

So, with a few polite words, an uneasy smile and and delicate pat to his hand (reminding him to loosen his grip) she slips away.

It feels like the ground has been yanked out from under her, when she sees that...ugly grin.

There's hurt at first, that they didn't trust her with this information, even after all they've been through.

That they would keep _him_ here, under her very nose... 

But then the anger stirs out of dormancy, unfurls and clouds her mind. Before long, Annalee is seeing red, her breath coming in quick, short pants.

She moves slowly, carefully, skirts clutched into a white knuckled fist. She feels heavy with the weight of their souls, the vengeance they demand. Every time a step creaks under her weight (she should have taken John Bell on his offer to repair them, last time he was in), she looks up, heart racing, sure Will and Kate have heard her and are minutes from catching her.

But in the ruckus, they don't have a prayer of hearing her...let alone seeing her. Seems like Lady Fortune is on her side for once. Annalee breathes a heartfelt sigh of relief before picking up her pace, moving quickly until she's outside the door. It isn't the one hiding that pig's stinking carcass. But it's a necessary one, nonetheless. A quick look over her shoulder and Annalee lets herself in. It's Mr. Clay's room, the occupant's identity evident from the fussily hung shirts with their bright, starched collars and the expensive leather case tucked just out of view beneath the bed hangings.

_She's not stealing, mind. She's just borrowing._

His razor is elegant, seemingly harmless with the blade tucked into the carved handle, positioned beside the still damp porcelain bowl. But Annalee, folding her fingers around it, knows the difference.

_And soon, Jeremiah Mudd will too._


End file.
